No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist⁠Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd⁠By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,⁠Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be⁠⁠Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;⁠For shade to shade will come too drowsily,⁠⁠And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall⁠Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,⁠And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.⁠Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,⁠⁠Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,⁠Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,⁠⁠And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;⁠And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,⁠Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight⁠Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,⁠⁠Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue⁠Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,⁠⁠And be among her cloudy trophies hung.